


Florotica

by devotchka



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fear Play, M/M, Sex Pollen, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: In which Leon really shouldn't touch strange plants.
Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Mr. X | Tyrant T-00
Comments: 13
Kudos: 393





	1. Chapter 1

Leon thinks, for a second, that he knows better.

He knows better than to touch strange plants that he’s never seen before. He knows better than to expect them to do things for him, and to expect that he will know without fail what those things should be.

Except that here, in the RPD, every law he thought he knew about life has officially been flipped on its head. The dead are coming back to life; there are skinless, dagger-clawed, creatures crawling around the halls; there are eight-foot-tall half-humans hunting him down. So maybe plants are spontaneously magical here – so what?

That’s why – even though it wasn’t in the manual he’d read earlier – he decides it might be worth it to touch the strange orange herb he’d come across in his search. He doesn’t have any red ones, and he’d like to hope that orange is close enough. Or superior, ideally.

So, he takes it. He doesn’t know what it does, and he takes it anyway.

He forgets about it. There’s so much to do and so few mistakes that he can make, and he gets lost in the search for an escape.

* * *

Leon forgets about it until he’s in the S.T.A.R.S. office. He’s reading a note left behind about a safe combination, wondering whether it’s worth it or not to go find whatever’s locked up in there, when he suddenly feels lightheaded.

It’s so spontaneous that he almost collapses, and he has to hold onto the desk for support. _Not good_ , he thinks. This is exactly the kind of position he doesn’t want to be in, and he’s not bleeding, so he has no idea what’s gotten him into this mess.

Then he remembers that orange herb.

He groans. He can’t think of anything else that could’ve done this. It’s his own fault he suddenly feels sick, and he should’ve known better than to take some random herb and figure out what it does later.

His chest flutters, and he stays standing still.

Okay, he thinks – everything can still be okay, so long as he plays his cards right. He’ll stay here a few minutes. He’ll let this pass. Then, he’ll head back to Lieutenant Branagh, and he’ll figure everything out from there. Sounds like a plan. Sounds like he’ll be okay.

And then a certain, familiar, overly heavy gait announces itself in the hallway just outside. The Tyrant.

Leon looks around. He only has a couple seconds now. He’ll have to hide first, and think about everything else later.

* * *

He still feels sick and strange by the time he makes it into the darkroom. Granted, it’s not so dark anymore with one of the few working lights in the place turned on, and he’s thankful for that. He thinks it's safe enough here to be able to sit down and rest for a few minutes.

So he does.

He takes inventory of himself: no flashbangs, no hand grenades, no knives, barely any ammunition. His pulse is still a little high, and so is his stress level.

If only Claire hadn’t come and gone so quickly, he thinks, or if the Lieutenant hadn’t been injured. Everything’s worse alone.

Leon runs a hand through his hair and sits down on the floor, thankful to have a moment away from the undead and the chaos in the rest of the station. He knows his best bet is to make it back to the entrance, back to the Lieutenant, to try and get some help. He’ll have a better idea of what’s going on here. It seems he always does.

Even if he doesn’t, he’ll be another set of hands to help shoot, and another pair of eyes to keep lookout while whatever this is passes. At least, he hopes it’ll pass.

* * *

Leon doesn’t even make it as far as the West Office before the Tyrant shows his face again, and he doesn’t see it coming at all. He’s turning a dark corner and he pretty much runs face first into him, and it's not the kind of mistake that he can come back from. The Tyrant scoops him up by his throat like he's weightless.

Leon kicks his legs at nothing, swinging and missing, unable to breathe and panicked about it. The Tyrant’s touch feels like fire, and Leon’s lightheadedness returns tenfold, and as one kick connects with the side of the Tyrant’s ribcage he feels a sudden tension spreading throughout his own body.

He’s aware of just how _close_ the Tyrant is to him, how he’s crowding into his space, and it does things to him.

He has to fight against his own body to not collapse onto the floor once the Tyrant releases his grip on him. Luckily, he lands on his feet, and he takes off running.


	2. Chapter 2

Leon’s back at the police station. He thought he’d escaped just a few short minutes ago, but the secret tunnel he’d worked so hard to access only led out to the parking garage, and that place was locked up tight. In retrospect, he shouldn't have been as surprised as he was.

He needs a keycard, one which is locked with a corpse in a broken jail cell that has no one but him to fix it, and his only choice is to hope and pray that the parts he needs are already somewhere in the building.

He searches. His efforts finally pay off in the bell tower – a mysterious place that he doesn’t get why the RPD held onto to begin with – when he finds a familiar, orange toned box wedged up high with the bell.

As luck would have it, he finds out quickly that he can’t quite reach the thing.

He’ll have to knock it over somehow.

* * *

Turns out the whole bell had to come crashing down, and that attracts a _lot_ of attention. The undead come pouring down the halls after him, probably pulled from halfway across the station with all the noise, and he doesn't want to know what else the noise might've interested.

Leon’s on the run.

His original path to the parking garage is inaccessible, Lieutenant Branagh is dead, and everything is chaos. His head is pounding. He doesn’t know what to attribute to stress or to injury or to that stupid miscellaneous herb he took.

He decides that he'll just have to find a different path. He knows there’s got to be one somewhere -- no one in the station used to reach the parking garage with that strange, hidden tunnel he’d taken earlier.

He’s got maps that might help, and he fumbles around with them until he finds a good view of the first floor. He just barely gets a glance at it before he hears the crack of wood splintering. His head snaps in that direction. The entrance to the library is torn off its hinges, and here comes the Tyrant, out for his blood again.

God, the Tyrant is _big_.

Leon turns to run, and the Tyrant is already on him. It grabs him by his throat and tugs him in, and Leon can feel its heartbeat against his back, steady and unbothered.

He wishes he could say the same about his own.

“Let go of me!” He shouts, and the Tyrant does, just not in any way he would’ve liked. He all but flings him forward, straight into the reception desk, and Leon’s side smacks into the edge of it hard before he crumples to the ground.

He feels completely cornered as the Tyrant steps towards him again, and he braces for another hit of some kind.

It doesn’t come. There’s a moment where everything stops, where he’s kneeling at the Tyrant’s feet and it’s just…studying him, leaving him to anticipate what might happen, what it might do to him.

It’s terrifying, mostly. Leon can hear his own shaky breathing, can feel the pain radiating in his side from being thrown so hard, and he knows he has to get out of here.

Part of him still wants to see what will happen next if he doesn’t.

Fortunately, that part of himself loses, and instead of freezing like he almost does he forces himself to move. He grabs the nearest object – a lamp on the edge of the desk – and throws it in the Tyrant’s direction.

The Tyrant recoils a bit, shielding its face, and Leon tries to take the opportunity and run. He shoots up to his feet and makes it one or two steps before the Tyrant is grabbing him by the wrist and flinging him back into the desk.

He topples over it, his body hitting the top and sliding hard, and he doesn’t get up when he hits the ground. He goes lightheaded for a second, burning inside where the Tyrant’s grip had been on him.

The Tyrant walks around the desk and reaches for him once more. Seeing him approach forces adrenaline through Leon’s body, and he manages to try and push himself away, but he doesn’t get far. The Tyrant grabs him by the front of his vest and lifts him several feet in the air with just one hand.

Leon feels so weak. This time, he doesn’t kick his legs, and he barely struggles. His hands wrap around the Tyrant’s wrist uselessly, and it responds by slamming him down onto the reception desk, flat on his back.

He hits it hard, air violently escaping his his lungs, and he knows at this point that he is completely out of options.

He looks up at the Tyrant, wide eyed, and the Tyrant looks down at him without emotion. Even with the struggle, Leon is exactly where it wants him. Suddenly he feels bare. He feels anxious with the Tyrant staring down at him.

Part of him feels the urge to spread his legs.

He has no idea where it comes from, and he feels heat rise in his face at the thought. This thing wants to kill him. Why does he find such a dangerous game suddenly so appealing?

Breathing hard, wondering why this is happening to him and already sounding wrecked, he manages to ask, “What do you want from me?”

The Tyrant stares at him just a moment longer, and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it decides to turn and leave.

Leon watches it go, confused, and says nothing.

* * *

After the Tyrant leaves, Leon stays in place for a moment and wonders just what the hell happened.

His heart is beating fast. He can feel each and every thing the Tyrant did to him as an echo on his skin, some things more painful than others, but the less painful things somehow more persistent.

He thinks about wanting to spread his legs earlier.

God, what the hell is wrong with him?

He picks himself up and heads east, feeling completely unprepared to deal with whatever comes next, knowing that the Tyrant is still in this building and feeling somehow _more_ anxious now that he knows it doesn’t just want him dead.

Leon thinks of the way it stared at him, and he wonders just what it was considering. Was it fascinated by him? Disgusted? Had it felt anything at all?

He thinks about how easily it picked him up; he thinks about how solid its body felt against him. He thinks about how inappropriate it is to be wondering about an actual monster that way.

He finds his way into the press room and lucks out with some extra ammunition. He also lucks out in finding the room completely empty, and having a working light switch. There's no real benefit to that last part aside from that being in a well lit room is just more comforting. He figures he could use comfort, anyway.

And he feels so weak. He doesn’t know how much longer he can wander around this way.

* * *

_Leon’s panting, exhausted and burning up inside with a need the likes of which he’s never felt before. His thighs ache from being held open so far for so long, his hips ache from the Tyrant’s merciless grip on them, and, in between his legs, the Tyrant is stretching him open, fucking him rough and hard. The Tyrant's hands are so wide they can completely encircle Leon's waist, and they hold him down, forcing him to take everything deeper._

_Leon moans like this isn’t his first time, encouraging, bouncing in the Tyrant’s lap as it simply watches below him. It stares at him – just like it had stared at him over the receptions desk – with fascination._

_If Leon weren’t so preoccupied with mindlessly trying to get himself off, rocking against the Tyrant's cock and moaning and acting like a slut, he might wonder just what it found so interesting, but he doesn’t._

Leon’s eyes snap open and he’s still sitting against a wall in the press room, just beside the light switch, breathing hard. He takes in his surroundings with urgency, immediately aware that he’d fallen asleep, but not for how long. There's a reflexive moment of panic that something might be wrong, that something might be coming for him.

Fortunately, nothing looks like it’s changed. He must’ve only dozed off for a few moments.

A few _very_ confusing moments.

“Fuck my life.” He murmurs to himself, remembering that strange event he’d gone through in his sleep – riding an actual monster and enjoying it.

Blame it on the sleep deprivation, he tells himself. Blame it on that weird confrontation in the main hall; blame it on the sudden trauma that came with showing up in this city; blame it on all the weird medicine there is to take here.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s probably idiotic of him, but Leon’s spending extra time wandering around the RPD hallways trying to unlock a fancy new gun from it’s safe spot in the S.T.A.R.S. office.

It involves a lot more than getting a gun at a regular police department would. He’s put a statue’s arm back together, accidentally discovered a jewelry box all the way across the station, taken apart an antique scepter, and somehow wound up holding a secret USB drive meant to look like a badge.

What a police department.

Leon figures that it’s worth it in the end, when he’s holding a shiny new magnum that he thinks he’ll immediately test out on the next unfortunate monstrosity that wanders in his path. It _feels_ powerful, and that alone takes weight off his shoulders. He likes it.

And he's pretty at peace with the situation until he finds himself face to face with the Tyrant. He’s wandering down one end of a hallway, and it’s at the other end, closing in on him rapidly as soon as their eyes lock.

His first thought is the new gun, and, while his hands are trembling and his legs feel unsteady, he manages to take it out in time to point it right at the Tyrant’s face.

He doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t shoot.

The Tyrant lacks the same restraint. His hand reaches for him without a sound, pressing hard into Leon’s chest and shoving him into the nearest wall.

Leon winces. For a moment, he feels stuck in time, anticipating the end of his life as it doesn’t immediately come, and then he opens his eyes. He thinks he might see the same question in the Tyrant – why didn’t he just shoot?

The hand that’s not gripping Leon’s chest grabs at his wrist, slamming it hard into the wall and forcing his hand open.

Leon’s nice new magnum drops uselessly to the floor.

Some part of him can’t help but tremble. It’s fear, he thinks. Just fear.

But it’s also how the Tyrant crowds him, how broad and _big_ he is and how he takes up all his space.

Leon remembers how good it felt, in his head, to bounce on the Tyrant’s cock like he did. His skin flushes. He’s about to die and somehow he’s having sexual fantasies about his very masculine, mostly humanoid pursuer.

The Tyrant doesn’t hurt him – not immediately. It just looks. The hand pressing against his chest begins to wander up, towards his throat, towards his face. There’s a sudden tension between the two of them that Leon hopes is only felt by him.

“Please let me go.” He tries.

He doesn’t know if the Tyrant understands English or not, but it acts like it doesn’t. It’s hand skims past Leon’s throat and it’s massive fingers cup his face with what seems like curiosity. They dig into his cheeks. They skim through his hair. It's free hand lets go of Leon's wrist, and pins him to the wall by his hip.

Leon’s heart beats fast and hard in his chest. One part of him is terrified to have a monster so close, so handsy – another part of him is some kind of excited. A confusing kind.

He can hear himself breathing in deep, steady pulls, can feel his legs wanting to give, can feel his body burning up inside with a sudden need to touch the Tyrant right back.

“Please.” He tries again. Outwardly, it’s _please let me go_ , but suddenly he isn’t sure if that’s what he means.

He thinks what he really means is _please be gentle with me_.

But the Tyrant listens to him for some reason, and it lets him go. Leon both does and doesn’t expect the sudden wave of disappointment that washes over him, that he refuses to show, as he leaves the magnum on the floor and takes off.

* * *

Leon doesn’t want to rest after being touched by the Tyrant like that. He doesn’t want to stop and sit down somewhere, doesn’t want to focus on how sick he still is or how deeply he still feels that strange touch.

He doesn’t want to give way to fantasy again, to danger, to the same shit that made him hesitant to pull the trigger earlier.

He knows that ultimately there was nothing he could really do to make the Tyrant stop, and, even if he could, nothing that he _would_ do. He's never felt so helpless to his own urges before. He's never felt them so tangibly, so powerfully, so undeniably.

He thinks about what might’ve happened if he hadn’t asked to be let go, if he hadn’t begged for it. He wonders again what the Tyrant sees in him.

In his head, part of him feels like he _knows_. He knows that the Tyrant would’ve turned him around, pressed his face into the cold wall and fucked him right there on the spot. He’d have tugged his pants down just far enough and violated him, would’ve made him scream and sob and shake, and Leon aches at the thought.

His fear of the Tyrant renews then. He worries that, next time, he won't be able to say no. He'll just be at it's mercy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a looooooong sex scene

Leon thinks he’s finally done with the police station. He’s finished everything there is to do. He’s found every weapon and solved every puzzle; he’s gotten the electronic parts he needs so badly. He has the key card. Unfortunately, every zombie in the jail can now escape their doors. And, also, the Tyrant is back.

Leon spots it at the end of the jail cells, right in the middle of the only path out. The zombies help keep him goal oriented. He goes through more shotgun rounds than he would’ve liked, but he manages to dodge his way out of the jail and thinks he’s home free as soon as he’s ducking past the Tyrant and sprinting out of the building.

As luck would have it, he isn’t.

He makes it just a few steps into the parking garage when the concrete wall behind him collapses entirely, and out comes the Tyrant. It’s already reaching for him, and it’s too quick for Leon to put up any sort of fight.

He’s still frozen from the shock of seeing an entire section of wall collapse as the Tyrant scoops him up by his neck. It doesn’t lift him; rather, it twists him around and slams his body into a nearby pillar, and then it pins him there.

It’s almost as if the Tyrant simply wants him to stop freaking out.

Something in Leon knows that he won’t be escaping this time. Something in him accepts that. He stills in the Tyrant’s grasp, and suddenly he can breathe again.

He fleetingly considers reaching for the pistol at his side. Again, he doesn’t, and again he’s floored by how big the Tyrant is, how easily he crowds him, how powerful he feels.

Leon’s afraid. There’s no denying it now. For a multitude of reasons, his heart beats wildly in his chest, his back pressing against the pillar hard as if the extra inch of distance will change anything.

He’s at the Tyrant’s mercy again – just as he feared.

The Tyrant’s massive hands close around Leon’s shoulders, and he should be more afraid than he is but they’ve played this game before, and he almost _needs_ to know where it goes.

Its hands hold him tightly, and then they’re sliding inward, brushing along the curve of his throat. Leon’s breath hitches. He imagines the ease with which the Tyrant could snap his neck.

He imagines the ease with which it could do a _lot_ of things, and he waits. He has no other choice. That’s what he tells himself.

The Tyrant’s studying him. It touches along his throat, and then back to his shoulders. Leon watches it look at him. He’s never felt so exposed in his life.

It grabs at his hips next, and Leon’s breath hitches. The Tyrant tugs him in and he moans. It’s grip is like fire, burning him up, flooding him with a sudden need that he didn’t expect to feel like this.

It’s definitely noticing the change in his demeanor. Leon looks up at the Tyrant with wide, blue eyes, unsure of what this means.

The Tyrant’s fingers continue to brush along his hips, and his waist, and it’s like it wants to see what Leon will do next. Leon himself doesn’t know what he’s going to do next.

He knows what he _wants_ to do, though.

Tentatively, with hands that shake just slightly, he dares to return the Tyrant’s gestures, reaching up and touching it’s chest. He’s shocked that it doesn’t push him away, shocked that he hasn’t broken the spell he suddenly feels wrapped up in, and that there’s still no violence.

“Why don’t you want to hurt me?” He breathes, genuinely curious but not expecting a real answer.

It’s like the Tyrant’s found a toy or something. It doesn’t respond to his question, but it touches him in complete fascination, and Leon continues to allow it. He can feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest, and he knows that he is helpless here.

The Tyrant could break him any time it chooses to, and that should scare him more than it does.

It’s hands dip lower, and they cup his ass without warning. Leon arches into the touch reflexively. Another soft moan escapes his lips. The Tyrant takes note of this, and maybe it’s encouraged by it, squeezing down against sensitive skin until Leon decides that’s the limit of what he can take.

He’s really going to try and fuck a monster.

His hands get a little pushier, and the Tyrant acquiesces, allowing Leon to position them so that the Tyrant is against the wall. He decides that it’s his turn to touch.

Out of curiosity (and anticipation), the first place he touches is low. His hand settles along the Tyrant’s stomach and trails down until it’s at the seat of the Tyrant’s pants, feeling a very hard, very _large_ outline there. Some part of the Tyrant does want him in that way, and Leon doesn’t need much more encouragement.

The Tyrant is still grabbing at him, tugging him in closer. It notices all the spots where Leon is most sensitive. It notices the spots that make him moan or gasp or shift around in it’s hands.

It lets Leon pull it down to the ground. It lets Leon move freely enough to straddle it’s lap, and it tugs him down into it like the physical distance is frustrating for them both.

It touches him everywhere. Leon grinds his hips down into its cock, and it grabs him by the waist and holds him there. _It likes this_ , he realizes. He wonders what else it’ll like.

Leon’s never done this before. He’s completely aware of that fact, but he isn’t panicking like he thought he might. Instead he’s working the buttons and zipper of the Tyrant’s pants, freeing it’s cock, and wrapping his fingers around it.

The Tyrant bucks into his fist, and Leon tightens his grip, beginning to stroke up and down it’s length.

“I want you to fuck me.” Leon says. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

He’s still not sure whether or not the Tyrant follows along with what he’s saying, but he thinks the confession is more for himself than for anyone else.

The Tyrant hasn’t said a single word so far. The only communication they’ve had with each other has been physical, and so he just begins pulling at his own clothes, letting the Tyrant feel his warmth, tugging his pants down just far enough.

The Tyrant probably doesn’t know what to do here, so Leon does all the work himself. He takes the Tyrant’s cock in one hand and lines it up with his hole, propping himself up and then gently beginning to sink down.

The stretch is immediate, and it’s painful. Leon only makes it a few inches down before he wants to tense up. It still feels like he _needs_ this, and he’s thankful that he feels that way as the Tyrant loses it's patience with him.

It pushes down on Leon’s thighs, forcing itself into him all the way to the base, and Leon throws his head back, biting his lip hard to bottle in a scream. He doesn’t know whether it’s from pleasure or from pain.

He needs to set a rhythm. He barely adjusts to the feeling of being so full before he’s lifting himself back up, and it’s just for the Tyrant to tug him down again by his waist, holding him close. Each time Leon pulls himself up he’s met with the Tyrant’s insistent pushing, forcing it’s cock as deep into him as it’ll go.

It’s not like Leon’s an expert in what gets monsters off. There hasn’t been any kissing; there hasn’t been any real foreplay. He can’t hear it panting like he can hear himself. It simply pushes him in the direction it wants him to go, and Leon obediently complies.

He kisses along the line of it’s jaw, across it’s throat, his arms wrapping around it’s shoulders and he can’t tell if it matters to anyone but himself. The Tyrant continues to bounce him around in it’s lap, and Leon holds on for the ride.

He’s suddenly aware of how big the Tyrant is again, how powerful, and it turns him on to be so helpless to something.

In between the motions they hit a spot in Leon that sends a shockwave of pleasure pooling in him, deep-seated and insistent, and Leon angles his hips to hit that same spot again, and again. Suddenly the Tyrant forcing him down so deep feels very, very good.

It makes him ram into that spot hard, and Leon can feel his body clenching in response. He can feel every inch of the Tyrant’s cock as it slides in and out of him. He’s really moaning now, open and unashamed, his legs spreading as far as he can manage as he grinds his hips down into the Tyrant’s cock.

“Don’t stop.” He gasps. “Oh my god, please, please don’t stop.”

The Tyrant’s pace stutters despite his begging – or maybe _because_ of – and it's hands grip Leon’s waist even tighter. The Tyrant is guiding him down faster, and Leon’s thighs burn with the strain of maintaining such a rapid pace, but he’s so close and all he can think about is how good it’s going to feel to finally, finally get what he wants.

The faster pace is the last thing Leon can take. For a second he’s overwhelmed, trembling, and then he’s coming. He's gasping and moaning as the Tyrant continues to tug him around like an object, fucking him through the most intense orgasm of his life.

He feels the Tyrant push somehow even deeper into him, and he encourages it, moaning and bouncing in it’s lap, saying, “Come in me. Come in me.”

He should really be wondering if that’s safe or not, and he really isn’t. Instead he’s focusing on how _good_ it feels when the Tyrant pins him down and does it. It feels like relief. It feels like clearing his head for the first time all night.

He doesn’t realize how sore he is until he’s pulling his pants back up, having climbed off the Tyrant’s lap, the monster simply watching him dress back up as if it’s still fascinated by him.

Part of Leon can’t believe what just happened, and that he’s not dead.

Another part of him is incredibly embarrassed that he just lost his composure like that. And for an actual monster of all things.

He looks at the Tyrant and the Tyrant looks back, and Leon doesn’t know what to think or believe, and he’s a little bit overwhelmed. He thinks about every absurdity that led him down this strange path in life. Never in a million years would he have imagined it before it was suddenly happening to him.

It almost feels like a fever dream.

“That was absolutely insane.” He says, almost to himself, but it’s definitely to the Tyrant. “I need to think about what just happened.” And he knows he’s _really_ pushing his wildly dependable luck, but he still asks, “Can you please leave?”

Somehow, he’s shocked that the Tyrant does. In a place that makes no sense, Leon really should’ve known better.


End file.
